First Sin
by Elysium66
Summary: Two unlikely people are drawn together in times of confusion and war. The mistakes they make, the sins they commit are the ones that help them cope. Prequel to Small Crimes.


_A/N: This is a total rewrite of a one-shot from a few years ago. I'm not sure why I decided it needed re-writing but I figured since I was in the mood, why not? It's now about 3 times the original length but whilst the writing has changed, the essence of it is still the same. :)_

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**First Sin**

The door is vast and made of wood far older than she can comprehend. It is set between blocks of wind-worn stone, softened and smoothed over time. Her hair whips around her face as the chill of night bites at her exposed cheeks. She gazes at the small cottage before her, fingertips itching to touch the wood and signal her presence. Her mind is not so sure.

She knows she cannot stand in the darkness for much longer, exposed to danger in times such as these. War is upon them; it creeps out at night to snatch away their memories, their loved ones. The price is high for the good they must achieve. She doesn't turn her back on it though, and all that is expected of her. That would mean turning her back on her friend, and she would never do that.

But there are things she will do, things she knows she shouldn't. It is the necessary part of coping, she has realised. That is why she has risked this journey to see _him_. She wonders if he is standing on the other side of the door, expecting her to come, or certain that she won't.

She licks her lips to moisten them against the burn of the cold air. They tingle from the chill. She's not quite sure why she's waiting outside still, when her decision has been made.

It was made months earlier, before she recognised the swooping of her stomach and the shaking of her hands for what they were. She wonders if he knew what it meant back then, has forecast this night and all that will come of it.

She thinks he might have. She can recall the searing heat of his gaze upon her, piercing and incisive. She remembers the way the air would crackle when he was in the room with her, and all others were oblivious.

They must continue to be, for she can never let her friends know of _this_. It will torment them in ways she cannot bear, for in their minds _he_ is still the enemy. Although he has crossed the line, bears their symbol and pledges allegiance to their cause, it isn't enough. It will never be enough. They will always seem him as the antagonist, the one who started it all.

And they are right. He is that.

But he is also much, much more.

He is the crisp air that breathes life to her worn and weary body. He is that which makes the blood sing in her veins. He is expectation. He is uncertainty.

And she revels in the thought of him and how he makes her feel.

Alive.

She has battled with the offer in his gaze, the suggestion muttered in dark corners of their headquarters, where she resides but he does not. She can still feel the rub of his thumb across the sensitive skin of her wrist, a promise but not a threat. She has been concerned with others for far too long, but she isn't anymore. She thinks only of herself and of him now.

The consequences, the unending ramifications, will wait until the weak morning light pierces the dark blanket of night and all that it conceals.

She pushes her shoulders back and with the deepest breath of air burning in her lungs, she raps knuckles against the rough-hewn wood. She waits. The moment feels long and tortuous before she hears the click of a lock undone.

He won't open the door himself, she knows. He will wait in the darkness beyond, wand held aloft in case it isn't her. He has been on the run for far too long to be anything other than cautious. With this born in mind, she presses flat palms against the wood, pushing it open and hearing nothing but the creak it makes and the howl of wind behind her.

The sound of her heart beat pulses in her ears as she steps across the threshold. Her shoes sink into the plush carpet underfoot, a soothing trap to lure her further into darkness. But she has come this far, she is beyond retribution.

One hand caresses the line of her wand, sheathed beneath the drape of her robes. She is cautious too.

She tracks the sounds within the small hallway, noting a darkness that is all consuming. But there is heat as well and its soothing warmth imbues her; it is a reprieve from the numbing of her conscience. It is only temporary, for when she leaves this house the memory of her actions will stay with her as she looks in the faces of those who know her best.

Those who _knew_ her best.

She pauses a moment to take in her surroundings. The space is dark, lit only by the candescent thrill of moonlight that peers through warbled panes, and the burnished glow creeping beneath a doorway to her left. Her heart races faster and she raises a trembling hand to her fevered brow, brushing back the disruptive curls residing there.

They press against her neck, anxious and heavy. Her pulse quickens, her breath is an unattainable delight. It evades her as she steps toward the brushed mahogany door.

She remembers then how much she wants this. How much she needs this.

The door pushes open with only a whisper as it grazes the carpet underfoot. He stands there by the hearth, pale gold in its fiery reflection. His head lifts slightly to acknowledge her presence, but he does not turn around. That small movement causes his hair to catch the light again; it glows brightly as a beacon to her.

"I didn't think you would come," he says, his voice in cadence with the crackle of flame upon wood. Hypnotic.

"I … I wasn't going to but…" she whispers in return, her voice fading out. But there is only a small measure of truth in her words, for though she knows she shouldn't be here, she finds it is inevitable.

She is here because she can no longer fight the pull she has to him, to his broken beauty, his silent pain. It calls to her, in symphonic melody with her own. It is a need, a rasping, clawing, urgent need. It pushes her further into the room. It is his domain, his sanctuary, and now the scene of her undoing.

He turns then, his head moving so that she can see his profile. The muscle in his jaw clenches in rhythm with her pulse. She wants to press her finger to it, to feel his energy fluttering beneath her skin. He turns further still, to face her with a flash of movement for which she is unprepared.

His face barely retains his mask of steely resolve, of coldness and containment. She sees it slip further still as she moves in silent motion closer to him. His eyes bore into hers, burning through every particle of her. They are black as charred coal now, in place of his usual icy grey indifference.

"And yet you came." The rough texture of his voice, spoken at barely above a whisper, rubs against her and she revels in the sound. "_Whatever_ would your friends think?" The usual bite to his mocking tone is lacking, and she wonders if the question is more serious than it suggests.

He steps closer to her and raises his palm so that it rests a breath above the skin of her cheek. She can feel the heat vibrating through that small space, lingering upon her downy skin. It raises a flush of pink upon her cheek, a feverish brightness in her gaze.

"You know this won't end well," he completes. She can scarcely recall how it began - the curiosity, the confusion – the way it had engulfed her. But she had seen something of herself in his shielded gaze then. And she had never looked away.

She recognises the truth in his words, and their hidden warning. But she is a slave to ill intentions now. Perhaps it is a mistake, or perhaps it is the thing that will save her. She needs distraction, a reprieve from the tension which consumes them all in times like these. She realises that without something physical to cling to, the scars of the battles she has fought, the youth stolen from her, will own her entirely.

And she cannot let them. She will not let them.

So she breathes in the scent of her undoing, and in raising her hand to stroke the line of his jaw, the final resistance, signs herself over to this sin. His hand holds her arm in a vice grip, throwing sharp relief against the gentle stroking of his thumb which moves to graze her lower lip. It trembles and parts and he holds her in that vulnerable pose. She burns beneath his touch, and feels herself begin to cower under the strength and intensity of his gaze, all the more disturbing set as it is amongst the harsh angles of his face.

The force of his kiss is bruising, a maelstrom of intoxication and desperate resentment, of shared pity and understanding. As skin collides, and colour flashes behind the wafer-thin skin of her eyelids, she forgets who she is and why she ought not to be here.

It does not matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore, except the touch of his hands against her skin, the taste of him on her tongue. His grip on her is fierce and the expression in his eyes is urgent. She feels certain that it mirrors her own.

He sets her back from him, gasping in the heady rush of air the way she does as well. He brushes a stray finger across the pillowed form of her mouth in a gesture that is surprisingly intimate. It makes her heart beat faster still. His hands move then, they pull at the fabric scratching against her heated skin and remove the articles of clothing with a deftness she envies.

The roaring in her ears has silenced and all that she can hear is his harshly drawn breath, and the sizzling of flame upon wood in the hearth. Despite its warm glow, she shivers just a little under his gaze. Although she tingles with the thought of what will happen, she is nervous too. She's old enough to use her wand to take another's life, but _this_ is something she has never experienced.

And she would never have thought when she did that it would be with him. Yet though she knows on paper it is wrong, and that by the logic that has always guided her it is wholly unsound, the touch of him against her tells her something else.

She watches the pale column of his neck and the breadth of his shoulders as he pulls the fabric of his clothing over his head. He's beautiful and she feels a bit uncertain, standing almost entirely undressed before him. It's strange to think that they are here given their history, the words of scorn and dissent which passed between them in their youth.

She thinks with bitter amusement about what his father would say, the man who would have relished nothing more than the demise of her and people like her. People he considered to be lesser than himself.

The soft sound of fabric sinking to the floor pulls her from her reverie, and she glances back at the man before her. There's an expression on his face which seems to suggest he thinks she'll flee at any moment. It steels her resolve. He must realise that because whatever he's been thinking, a decision has been made and he reaches forward.

His palms grip her hips, pressing into the smooth skin they find there, and he tugs her forward. His mouth descends to take her own and she revels in the firm pressure of his lips. She doesn't move though, she takes no initiative because she's not quite sure where to put her hands or how to touch him back.

Her lashes are lowered but she can feel his intent gaze on her, surveying her reaction. A hand sifts through the tangle of her curls and tugs her head back, providing him with better access. His tongue brushes the pink seam of her mouth and a flash of even white teeth tug swiftly. Startled, she opens her mouth and he's there, kissing her more thoroughly than she has ever experienced. The touch of his tongue against her own leaves her feeling heady. He seems satisfied to have a reaction out of her and rewards it with a caress down the arch of her spine.

The fingers trail upward again and brush along the back of her bra, trailing the edge around to the front, where the tips of his fingers push beneath the fabric. She shivers in response.

"Take it off," he whispers against her mouth. It's a demand and not a request; she doesn't think he's ever said please in his entire life. It grates against her nerves in spite of her desire to have him touch her _there_ without any barriers.

"I'm not a … house elf." She mutters back. "Say please…"

His posture stiffens and he pulls back to look at her, brow quirked. She's not sure how he will react to that comment, his volatility is of renown.

A ghost of a smirk seems to curve upon his lips; it is something she has not seen in a long time. It is the mark of his arrogance which was demonstrated so frequently in their youth. He tugs her closer to the wall of his chest, head lowered and his lips brushing against the outer shell of her ear.

"Always so bossy, aren't you?" With that murmured remark, the span of his palms braces her back, sliding underneath the material. His hands brush in circles against her skin, before moving across the catches of the undergarment. He kisses her fiercely then, and with both hands tugs at the material where it is most weak and rips the garment.

Her mouth falls open with a cry of pain and he catches it with his own. She wants to call him all kinds of things and push him away, but his hands are tracing comforting circles on her back now and she finds it distracting. She can tell he's quite impressed with himself though.

Her train of thought evaporates when his hands smooth around to her sides and brush across her bare abdomen. He leans back to watch as they cup the weight of her breasts, and a flush of pink spreads across her chest at the heat of his gaze. He drops his hands then, and tugs her to the other side of the room. There is a settee there, it's rather worn but she's unconcerned about that at the moment. Otherwise she might have thought about the strangeness of him living so far below his means.

He sits down then, and raises a brow at her, gesturing toward his lap. She flushes once again. The look on his face tells her he knows what she is thinking. He seems to enjoy the way he shocks her and the inexperience she clearly has.

She takes a breath and pushes back her shoulders, before leaning forward and bracing both hands on his bare shoulders and planting her knees on either side of him. The look on his face says amusement, it also says need and she relishes this fact. As she settles she can feel the heat of him beneath her, feel his hard length pressing against her skin. She stares before she hears a muttered expletive, and feels his hand beneath her chin, hurriedly guiding her mouth to his once more. It is more urgent this time: teeth nipping, mouths smacking.

She squirms against him when his hand rubs tauntingly over the sensitive peak of her nipple. And when his mouth drags away from hers, trailing hot kisses along her neck and collarbone toward the pebbled peak, she feels giddy from the heat pooling in her stomach. The touch of his tongue and the ensuing cold air against it causes her to grip the back of his head, fingers carding through the soft texture of his hair. He glances up at her, clearly relishing her responsiveness.

Pulling back he surveys her before dropping a quick kiss against her puffy lips. "Touch me," he says against her mouth. He doesn't need to say please this time - need colours the low tone of his voice.

And she wants to do just that, but she has no idea where or what to do and how to start. She can feel him watching, basking in her uncertainty. She rubs her lips together, before lifting one hand from his shoulder to draw tiny patterns. She can feel the muscles contracted beneath the translucent skin, could swear she felt the pumping of his blood as well.

He's remarkably still as he watches her watching him, and she wants very much to ruffle his feathers. She doesn't shield her gaze from his as she lowers to press her lips swiftly to his collarbone. Her mouth leaves a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses along the line of his shoulders, following the dancing movement of her fingers in an exploration of his chest. She pushes against him then, and he leans back against the frame of the settee in compliance.

The shuddery breath which leaves his body at the touch of her tongue to his skin makes her look up again. His eyes are dark and on her, but he shows such steely control. She wants to make him come undone.

She swallows nervously as her hand trails down the length of his abdomen, resting hesitantly at the top of his pants. Her hand shakes a little as she fumbles for the zip and when the catch gives she feels him pressed against her palm, searing hot and rather intimidating.

She knows, in theory, how this works and what she ought to do. It's very different to feeling him pulsing in her grip, and she's both excited and nervous because of it.

His hand joins hers at the opening of his pants and she watches as he shifts the fabric to release his hard length from its confines. He takes her hand in his, wrapping it around him and guiding her. She follows suit, her eyes wide as she watches the flush growing on his cheeks, the increasingly ragged quality of his breath.

When she squeezes him and a muttered oath falls from his lips, she leans forward and kisses him simply because she couldn't _not_ kiss him in that moment. It seems to draw his attention back to her, and he releases his grip, instead resting his hands on her hips.

She trembles when they brush down over the fabric of her knickers, moving in circles on her thighs. He's teasing her with the anticipation of something she doesn't know, but is fairly certain she wants. She wants him to touch her, to ease the ache that is building. He does.

His thumb brushes across the fabric and applies pressure to that very central part of her where no one else has touched. She shivers as the fabric clings to her from the gathering moisture. He rubs gently in slow circles and then faster ones, and when he touches the secret part of her it makes her squeeze him harder.

All she can hear is the dying crackle from the hearth, the torrent of wind outside and the catching of his breath and hers. She's far too distracted by his touch to kiss him, and so rests her brow against his own. She can taste his breath against her tongue with each outward expulsion. And each sound, each whispered word and rumble in his chest makes her squirm all the more.

He's talking before she begins to process what he's saying. "It's in the… way." He punctuates this by tearing at the side of her knickers and she pulls back from him in shock.

"You can't keep doing -" He cuts her off with a kiss, a shrug and the feeling of his touch directly against her moist folds. She decides she can forgive his take-without-asking approach easily enough on this occasion.

His thumb brushes across her nub as he slides a finger down her slick folds and inside her. The cry which wrings out from her causes him to turn his tormented gaze upon her once more.

"Can't go back now," he murmurs as she starts to fall apart. The fabric of her vision begins to fray and she shakes her head in response.

He's right, they can't go back now. And she doesn't want to.

The clatter of rain on the roof top seems to thrum in steady melody with the contented beating of his heart. He is lying on the bed, not nearly as comfortable as what he has been used to, and is gazing at the ceiling. He isn't covered by the sheets anymore, and can feel the biting chill of the night air as it skates over his bare skin.

He makes no move to hide from the cold; he relishes the clarity it brings. He needs it as a reminder of the reality of his situation, and his relationship with _her_. Allowing himself to confuse his emotions and hers for the sake of comfort cannot happen. It would be easy to allow such pretence given the horrors he sees each day, the horrors he has known.

He casts his gaze at the curled form of the girl pressed against his side and tangled in his sheets. He watches as small clouds of her breath condense with each outward expulsion. He wonders if she can feel his gaze upon her, as she shifts in restless slumber.

The tangled mass of her hair spills over the pillow, tickling his skin and he breathes in its softly floral scent. He shouldn't lie here watching her, he knows. And yet he does. His turbulent gaze moves over her curled up form, wrapped in his sheets, a stark white against the warmth of her skin.

That she is here in this room, exposed and vulnerable, shocks him still. She is small and breakable like this and it is so at odds with everything he knows about her. The fierce gaze is softened in slumber, the fan of her lashes dancing against the under circles of her eyes.

He leans his weight onto one elbow to look at her more closely. He should have left the bed by now, should have walked away to make the line in the sand supremely clear. He will do that, but not just yet. He wants to indulge in the untarnished and unprotected view he has of her, a vision to which he is not entitled but he takes it anyway.

He brushes a finger across the exposed skin of her shoulder, revelling in the way the downy hair stands on end. He is aware of her reaction to him even when she is not.

The glowing skin is warm and soft compared to his, and the urge to touch it overwhelms him further. Her body twists in the sheets then, as though her subconscious has recalled his presence and moved closer to it. His heart thuds a little louder at that. He knows he shouldn't relish it, shouldn't wish for her to place more value on what has happened than she likely does. No good can come of that, he knows.

Puffy lips press against his wrist and he holds a breath, a rigid desire to pull away snapping at every part of him. Small clouds of air tickle his own skin, and he swallows dryly as the mist of contentment clears and he shies away from the beckoning call of reality. He pushes up into a sitting position, removing himself from the warmth of her and any false comfort it might provide.

As he stands and shakes off the mental cobwebs, he casts another glance at the girl, for in her sleep that is how she appears to him. He stands there for a moment and his pale skin is luminous in the sliver of moonlight that breaks through the overriding darkness.

He has known this moment would come, prefaced by the hunger and need for oblivion the night before, but now the awakening is here. And whilst the taste of guilt and confusion lingers on his breath, he will not regret what he has done. He cannot,  
for this feeling of removal exhilarates him. The strangeness of the moment and the sight of her imbue him with the cold sense of separation he has desired. It stops him from thinking about the terrible things he has done, and how those memories have haunted him.

And how they haunt him still.

He ignores the biting cold breath of the wind against his bare chest as he sinks further into the dark crevices of the room. He sees that she is cold now, shivering from the lack of body heat against her own. She will wake up soon enough, he knows. He won't be there for that. She'll feel guilty if she sees his face and recalls the things she's done. He knows that far too well.

So he soaks in the vision that she is for just a moment longer. He recognises that a part of her is lost and broken, an innocence shattered by a world that is destructive. She's resilient though, and he knows that she'll pull through in the end. It's this part, this middle section of not knowing and seemingly endless bad news that breaks her will. But come the end, when she has to stand there with her friends and close the final deal, she will. He knows that too.

She won't think of _him_ then; she won't even think of herself.

For now though, he is a reprieve and a distraction. He is her exodus from the rigid confines of her life, a world in which she has been shaped and moulded and from which she must now escape.

What they do here is the smallest of sins. It is the one in which no one else partakes and by which others are not hurt, simply because they do not know. She will never tell a soul, she'll keep this memory and the shame it conjures locked firmly in her mind. _He_ will hurt in the end, he is sure, when the time comes to watch her walk away. He has accepted it though, for he knows he has no right to any sort of hold on her.

She means more to him than is healthy. She means more to him than she should. It is her warmth that he is drawn to, the curious glint in her intelligent gaze, which never fails to read a person. She has never failed to read him.

He tries not to think too hard about the way things have changed, the sacrifices and the mistakes he has made in equal measure. They are the reason why he fights on her side and against all that he was raised to believe. It is why he looks at his friends with his wand held aloft and a curse on his lips.

This is a war, he knows, and the scars will never be removed. The taint of blood and sweat and guilt will forever coat him like a second skin. He will never forget, nor will she for she carries the weight of others so firmly on her shoulders.

And though her glowing light has dimmed, she beckons to him still. Her unhappiness and dissatisfaction sing in melody with his own. But in spite of this and the way he has treated her and others, it is her innately good nature that appeals to him, so in contrast with his own. She has become a sort of solace to him in the dark cloud of war. And though he knows that she can never _fix_ him the way that she would like, he longs most fervently to let her try.

Each moment in this foggy realm of greedy consumption holds his fears at bay. It is a reprieve from the torrent of emotions that swim thick and fast around in every moment of his existence. Each memory, each vivid recollection poisons him further, so that at times he can scarcely breathe from the weight of it all.

She doesn't know these things, and he will never tell her. He will never let anyone see what lurks beneath surface. His thoughts are his own to unravel.

He will revel in this glory while it still occurs, but he will let her walk away when the time comes because she's not the broken down figure he is. And he knows that he's not good for her in the truest sense. He knows that being here in this room with him will only cause her shame.

But he also knows that it will happen again, because she needs this just as much as he does.

The slapping of broken down window panes in the howling wind pulls him from his reverie. With a silence bred from caution, he gathers his effects and makes to leave the room. The house, small and imperfect though it is, is his safe house, his sanctuary. And now it smells like her. He wonders if the scent of her hair will linger on his pillows long after she is gone. She is stubborn, so he thinks it just might.

He leaves then, knowing she will awake soon. He cannot see the look of regret in her gaze; he cannot let it sway him.

Once was not enough; he knew it never would be. And perhaps she doesn't see it yet, but this must be the first of many sins.


End file.
